A Probie's Handbook: A Guide to Gibbs Survival
by Gixxer Pilot
Summary: As much as McGee enjoys Gibbs’ team, his first year as a field agent was a little…trying. To protect all future probies, McGee puts his writing skills to good use and comes up with a guide for the future generations dealing with Hurricane Gibbs. Complete
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Notes**: Hey everyone and welcome to my first non-crossover NCIS fic. This is just something that randomly popped into my head a few nights ago, and though I'm sure it's been done before, my muse won't let me get back to work on my massive NCIS/Transformers story until I finish this one up. Light spoilers through season four's Cover Story. The information McGee's typing is in _italics_; his thoughts and feelings are in regular text. I tried to research what episode the details are from, but if I've got some in there from after Cover Story, I apologize.

**Disclaimer**: I don't own NCIS, though I would like to take the car Jackson Gibbs gave his son in "Heartland" out for a quick spin. Don Bellarsario, could you make that happen for me? No? Well, I had to try.

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McGee sat at his typewriter, his pencil tapping thoughtfully against his left cheek. He'd been making good headway in his writing, but was stuck at a juncture that had become particularly trying on his patience. He let out a frustrated breath. The only upside was that at least now he had the story figured out. When he'd jumped into the murky waters of becoming an author, McGee expected the writing to be hard work, but he hadn't quite expected the circus that would result because of it. Admittedly, his first and biggest mistake was not asking his team's permission before he used their personality visages as backdrops for each character in Deep Sixed. The second was throwing away all his used ribbons for anyone to find.

Tim braced his hands on his desk and stood, his chair squeaking on the floor below. Wandering into the kitchen, he poured himself a glass of fruit juice and sat back down at in front of his prized antique typewriter. Though computers were his passion, it felt foreign to stare at a screen while writing a novel. Using the typewriter made him feel more legit as an author, as if he were walking out of his existence as Timothy McGee and instead stepping into the persona of Thom E. Gemcity. McGee laid his fingers on the home row of the keys, and once again stopped.

This transition should not be that difficult, drawing a scowl to the normally placid agent's face. In the book, Agent Tommy and Officer Lisa were about to discover the fate of Agent McGregor and his love interest with Amy Sutton, but nothing was working right. Nothing fit. Everything he'd written had come off sounding cheap and cheesy, and none of it was up to Gemcity standards. With his deadline looming in ten days, McGee knew he had to get over this block before it caused any more problems with his publisher. Shuddering, he pushed thought of what his editor would do if he were late on the deadline out of his mind. Shaking his head, McGee stared resolutely at the notes in his binder and drew a huge blank.

McGee hopped out of his chair again, this time to change the record. He'd taken Tony's advice and invested in a couple classic John Coltrane albums. Like most things Tony, Tim wasn't surprised to find DiNozzo had good taste in jazz. Allowing his mind to briefly wander, Tim thought back to his first weeks and months on Gibbs' team. It was, simply put, a trial by fire, something he truly never wished to repeat, but also an experience he wouldn't trade from the world. So much had happened since then; Kate's death, Ari, Ziva, Gibbs and his brief retirement-- McGee stopped himself. Not retirement, a hiatus. Thinking about his ornery but fiercely protective team leader made Tim's lips curled up into something looking suspiciously like a smile. When writer's block bit, there was but one solution: a free write. Exchanging the half finished novel page out for a fresh, blank sheet, Tim typed the first thing that came to his mind.

_Part I: Introduction_

_First and foremost, welcome to NCIS. You have chosen wisely and we have every expectation you will enjoy your tenure with this agency. With that said, we understand that being the new guy, the Probationary Officer (Probie), is no easy task. In this brief guide, we aim to walk you through some of the simple steps you may take to ease your transition into the NCIS family. Though this bit of literature is supplementary to the NCIS Official Employee Handbook provided to you by Human Resources, its importance should not be diminished. In fact, this small guide may be the most relevant piece of reading you are ever given._

_NCIS has many faces and very few are alike. For those of you who may be lucky enough to work with any of the Major Case Response Teams, this guide is for you. Specifically, one MCRT team leaders, Special Agent Gibbs, has a reputation for being tough in his demands, and even harder to read. This guide aims to at least make your life bearable if you must encounter all that is Hurricane Gibbs. It will help you by explaining how he thinks, what drives him and most importantly, how to react and respond to him. And while the author of this guide understands that no two situations are alike, the generality of this guide is all encompassing._

_The above paragraph is not to say any new probie should fear Special Agent Gibbs. Quite to the contrary, he will teach you more than you ever thought you could learn about investigation, observation and procedure. It is, however, up to you to keep your eyes and ears open long enough to learn it. For those of you with the mental and physical toughness necessary to survive, you will find yourself emerging on the other side with a wealth of knowledge unsurpassed by any other agent in the organization._

_Welcome to NCIS and we wish you the best of luck._

_Sincerely,_

_Special Agent Timothy McGee_

_Part II: The Rules_

_Special Agent Gibbs is very black and white. To him, it is either wrong or it's right. However, it will be up to you to figure out which of those two choices is the correct one. Gibbs has a set of rules that govern his life and dictate how he lives and makes decisions. He does not deviate from those rules, so it will be in your best interest to integrate them into your life, and adjust to adapt with them._

_However, the following rules in this guide are not Gibbs' rules. They are rules that past probies have decided are helpful tips to remember early in a new agent's career. If you are able to successfully adopt the following key points, public humiliation will likely be kept to as much of a minimum as can be expected._

_Please keep in mind that there are more little hints which may be helpful to individual agents, and for that reason, a notes section is provided in the back of this book. For the purposes of compression, we have chosen the ten most common rules, outlining the ten most common mistakes new agents make, and have extrapolated upon them for your perusal. They are listed in order of importance, with the first being the most and working their way down from there._

_1._ _**NEVER**__ mess with Gibbs' coffee unless you hold very little value to your arms, legs, eyes or life__._

_This is the most important rule a young probie will ever learn. Gibbs does not have blood running through his veins; he instead has substituted it for coffee. He drinks it literally by the gallon, and is rarely seen without a cup in his hand. Do not knock it over or spill it, and under no circumstances should a young agent ever drink any coffee randomly lying around the bullpen without checking for Gibbs' presence first. Be sure to check with Gibbs himself for ownership, and not his senior field agent. The alternatives can be disastrous. _

Speaking from personal experience, McGee thought this rule was possibly the most important tip a new agent needed to know. Though he had some help from DiNozzo, McGee himself had made the very same error early in his tenure with Gibbs' team. Tim would never forget the death glare he received from his boss while standing in Laura Rowan's living room, holding the empty cup in his hand. He would also never forget the sinking feeling of dread in his chest when he realized the coffee Tony handed him as a pick me up actually belonged to Gibbs.

_2._ _Expect to be headslapped, as it is unavoidable__._

_Gibbs uses this technique quite effectively in order to gain the attention of his agents, or in some cases, to reprimand them. He will always do it to the back of your head, and usually when you're not expecting it. As he explains, "It doesn't do any good when you know it's coming." Be aware that it doesn't hurt as it is meant to be more of a surprise, and should not cause any lasting injury. The one notable exception to that rule could possibly be Special Agent Anthony DiNozzo, but he is another guide all on his own._

McGee had lost count of how many times he'd been headslapped by Gibbs, though he couldn't remember a time when Gibbs had slapped him and he didn't deserve it. Gibbs might be a self-proclaimed bastard, but he was always fair. Though Tony was his main target, McGee and even Ziva were not immune to Gibbs' version of the wake up call. With a sad smile, McGee remembered he'd never slapped Kate.

_3. __Don't use technojargon. He absolutely, positively __**will not**__ understand it__._

_Gibbs barely knows how to use his cell phone, and his phone is replaced on a monthly basis as he breaks it to, "Make it work better." When speaking to Gibbs on any matter related to technology, explain it as if you were talking to your grandmother's parents. He builds boats exclusively with hand tools and owns a one very small TV he uses for a table in his basement. Do not use terms such as megabyte, gigabyte, jpeg, html or any such incarnations of web speak. He will undoubtedly become flustered, and will likely resort to the use of Rule Number 2._

Laughing to himself, McGee recalled the incident in which he was working with Abby, going through a potential suspect's hard drive. He clearly remembered that when he said there were about 150 gigabytes worth of information to process, Gibbs had responded with a curt, "Oh, that's all? It should only take you an hour, then!" and walked out of Abby's lab. It was then he realized how much of the Stone Age his boss still resided in, and aimed to dumb his explanations down as much as possible. Unfortunately, it still wasn't enough.

_4. __Do not, under any circumstance, ever apologize. For anything, even for breaking the above listed rule number 1__._

_Gibbs views an apology as a sign of weakness, though recently someone very close to him has taken to question that belief. The key here is that mistakes, while not tolerated per say, can be forgotten if you are able to find a way to rectify your error. Fix the problem and then move on. Save the apology for someone who will care, because he will not. Keep this in mind, as an apology made too many times will certainly end up with a visit from Rule Number 2._

Rubbing his hands together, McGee thought about his last case. This was another rule that applied directly to him, and in a very recent fashion. He never would have dreamed that Landon, the guy who made him his coffee, would be the one to kill based on his incomplete book. When Tim had apologized to Gibbs for his apparent part in two murders, Gibbs had done nothing but shoved him back to his desk and told him in no uncertain terms to finish the book to solve the case. Even though Tim questioned his own abilities on a semi-routinely basis, the confidence Gibbs had in him never wavered. It was a comforting thought after the fact.

_5. __Trust his gut. It's not usually wrong__._

_Gibbs is famous for using his gut, or his instincts to solve cases, to tell if someone is lying or to know what direction to go. Do not question his instincts. It's what makes him a great investigator, and is an intangible of priceless value. Learn from what he's thinking and try to predict what he might do in response to a situation. Your career, and someday your life may thank you for it._

Gibbs was the first and only person McGee had ever met during his life that had such an uncanny sixth sense for the world around him. There was virtually nothing that made it past him. When McGee first started working with him, the probie actually felt a little sympathy for a suspect or a witness who tried to lie to Gibbs. That had faded with the new agent feeling, but it was almost scary how he seemed to know what was going on at any given time. Gibbs was about as street smart as anyone could possibly hope to be, and that was a skill that had to be learned and cultivated.

_6. __When riding with Gibbs, wear your seatbelt__._

_Though it may seem odd that this rule is listed in this guide, riding in any motorized vehicle with Gibbs can be a life threatening choice. Before you get in a car with him, make sure your will is up to date with Human Resources, especially if he's in a bad mood. We have made numerous requests for four point racing restraints to be installed in the car he uses, but all request to this point have been denied. Gibbs drives like a fighter pilot flies: fast, to the point and on the edge. Be restrained in any vehicle with him. The results of not heeding this warning will speak for themselves._

McGee knew it wasn't necessarily an accomplishment to make him motion sick. On ships, he was particularly miserable because of the rocking and swaying, but that was the ocean. On land, he often contemplated taking one Dramamine every day to ease the nausea he felt riding with Gibbs. On numerous trips, Tim had seen his life flash before his eyes as Gibbs blew one red light after another, or executed an emergency skid and 180-degree whip in the middle of a busy D.C. highway. Though he'd been part of Gibbs' team for the past three years, the Team Leader's driving was something he would never fully appreciate or really care for.

_7. __Never tell Gibbs it's impossible__._

_This is an answer that Gibbs will not understand. Nothing is impossible. Gibbs may know a lot of four letter words, but the words 'can't' or 'no' do not exist in his vocabulary. When he gives you a task, he expects you to fulfill that task by any means necessary. He also expects you to be self-motivated and resourceful. You must find a way to do as he asks. If what he needed or asked of you weren't of the utmost importance, he would not ask you to do it._

One of the strangest things McGee had ever heard from Gibbs' mouth was the request that the computer whiz "visit" the CIA for information. At first, Tim had been confused and then realized what kind of visit Gibbs needed. When he'd gone home that night, McGee pondered the ethical and moral repercussions of his actions and wondered why someone like Gibbs, who clearly respected the law, would ask him to break the very thing he was supposed to uphold. In the end, Tim decided that he could sum Gibbs in that moment up using Bentham's theory of Utilitarianism: the needs of the many certainly outweighed the needs of the few. Plus, it didn't hurt the bad guys went to jail, did it?

_8. __Do not assume anything. Check, double check and triple check for yourself__._

_The old adage of, "When you assume, you make an ass out of you and me," could not be truer for anyone working with Special Agent Gibbs. Never assume anyone did what you asked to be done. Just asking a records officer or local LEO to do it is not enough. Go babysit if you must, but get the work done with your own hands and eyes. Do not, under any circumstances, allow it to be done for you. Gibbs will not accept that as appropriate, nor will he feel it's valid._

As with the headslaps, McGee had lost count of how many times Gibbs had looked at him, nonverbally asking why the probie was still in the bullpen and not out supervising the work he was hoping to accomplish. Gibbs was a man who left nothing to chance, and though it was an annoying trait at first, McGee saw firsthand how crucial it was to never depend on someone else. That redundancy that Gibbs often required was one of the reasons his team had such a high solve percentage and that was a stat of which Tim was extremely proud.

_9. __If you have a valid theory, speak up._

_Though the patented Gibbs glare would probably make Osama himself run for cover or surrender, resist the urge to cave under it. This may take some time, but the results in the end will be worth it. Do try not to babble, and make your point as fast as you can. If you're wrong, your theory makes no sense or is simply horrible, Gibbs will tell you. No matter what, you'll always have his honest opinion._

McGee leaned back in his chair, his fingers interlacing on top of his head. He thought back to his infancy with NCIS. Still on loan from Norfolk, he just an MIT whiz kid assigned to he technology department. While he did his work on MCRT's networks, he devised a way to speed up the search for the missing intruder from autopsy. The part he struggled with was finding a way to tell Gibbs he had a way to help. Though the search lead to Ari Haswari and ultimately to Kate's death, he was glad he found the brass to speak up. It was easily the reason he was on Gibbs' team today.

_10. __Be efficient. Gibbs is not known for his patience__._

_If patience is indeed a virtue, it missed Gibbs completely. This is very self-explanatory: be efficient. Don't waste time and you will not incur his wrath. If you can find a way to do it faster, use it but not at the expense of exactness. Gibbs demands the best, but he also gives all he has to the team, to each case and to NCIS. _

How many times had Gibbs caught Tony surfing eBay? DiNozzo was notorious for wasting time, though he always seemed to find a way to get his work done. McGee hoped one day Tony would share that little secret with him as it was something he'd not yet mastered. And as bad as Tony was, McGee was not quite innocent in the realm of time efficiency. He clearly remembered thinking his career with NCIS was going to be over before it begun when Gibbs caught him playing an online MMORPG game in MTAC during the Shields case.

Leaning back in his chair, McGee picked up the stack of six or seven pages he'd amassed during his free write to proofread. Satisfied, Tim quickly closed out the guide with a short acknowledgement letter and then pulled the last page from the typewriter and laid it into his binder. As he leaned down to lock his binder and the tail end of his manifest into his safe, Tim stopped and instead pulled the newly written work out. He slid it into a black pocket folder with the NCIS logo emblazoned in gold on the front cover. Putting his keys on top of it, McGee whistled as he got eagerly back to work on Rock Hollow.

Jenny Shepherd would have some interesting reading for her consideration tomorrow.

**--FIN--**


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Notes**: And yet another oneshot that got completely away from me. I'm writing a crackfic with an outlined plot. Good lord, what's wrong with me? Anyway, people said they wanted to see reactions to this handbook thingy, so ask and ye shall receive. There will (obviously) be one chapter after this one with the reactionary scene everyone is waiting to see, but I felt that a little plot in the crack wouldn't hurt either.

This chapter takes place after "Heartland" but before "Faith". I just needed to make it that way so I could write Jackson Gibbs into this story. I think he's awesome.

**Disclaimer**: Nothing of NCIS belongs to me. If it did, do you honestly think I'd be writing fan fiction?

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**Chapter 2**

"You ever heard of using that thing on top of the doorknob, son? You know, the little doohickey that locks the door shut?" Jackson Gibbs asked, poking his head in the doorway to his son's basement.

"Don't have anything worth stealing, Dad. And I must say this is a little unexpected," Gibbs responded, picking up the sandpaper. He laid the instrument over the wood and halted. "What are you doing here?"

Jackson shrugged and brought his hands up, palms up. "What? A man needs an excuse to visit his son? And I could have killed you with the way you left that door. Why don't you just hang a sign there in neon letters, advertising the fact."

"I never said I didn't hear you come in. You're about as quiet as DiNozzo is when he's trying to leave the building for a hot date."

"You heard that? I barely made a sound!" Jackson insisted, descending the last step to the concrete floor of Gibbs' makeshift workshop.

Gibbs raised an eyebrow in his father's direction. "Sniper, remember?"

Jackson sighed with a smirk and said, "Yeah, right. I know. Tell the boy he can't have a rifle and he grows up to be a sniper."

Gibbs set the sander down on his workbench and cleared off a stool. He offered it to his father while fetching one for himself. "Now, what can I do for you, Dad?"

"Nothing, really. I was just looking for something to do, and I thought maybe I'd come see you. I have no other intentions, I swear," Jackson answered.

Gibbs studied the older man. He did appear to be telling the truth, but the logic in his brain wasn't meshing with the emotions in his heart. Probing the million-dollar question, Gibbs asked, "Yeah, you've had a lot of time to visit me in the past, and you never have. Never even called, so don't patronize me now because I'm shocked you randomly showed up at my house. Why?"

Jackson sighed. Earnestly, he began, "I know I've made a lot of mistakes with you and our relationship, Jethro, Shannon and Kelly's funerals being the major one. I'm sorry for that, I really am, but I never knew how to tell you." Jackson held up a hand when Gibbs started to interject. "I know. You think apologies are a sign of weakness. Well I don't. I realized when I saw you with your team I might have a second chance at being a part of your life. I know it'll be a small part, but it's better than nothing."

Jethro was silent for a moment, digesting the words of his father. Slowly, the ghost of a smile touched his lips, signifying his acceptance. "You could have called."

"And ruin the surprise? Never! I'm here for the weekend, so just deal with it. You're stuck with me until then."

"We're on duty this weekend, Dad," Gibbs automatically answered.

Jackson stood, brushing the sawdust off the seat of his pants. "That's okay. I can hang out with you guys. I'll stay out of the way, I promise. Scout's honor."

"Yeah, that's what I'm afraid of. Come on. I have to change and then we need to go."

An hour later, Jackson Gibbs was bored out of his skull. He was never one to sit still to begin with, which was precisely why he felt his current predicament was akin to Chinese water torture. Jethro's solution to the random arrival of his father was to bring Gibbs Senior into NCIS and park Jackson behind his desk. Gibbs gave his father a stern warning to touch nothing and to stay out of MTAC, though it befuddled Jackson what or who MTAC was. He knew nothing and no one, and it appeared the population of the somewhat nationally obscure federal agency for which his son worked was largely ignoring his presence.

More than just a generation gap existed between the elder Gibbs and his son's team. For him, being at NCIS was like being in another country with all the technology and hustle and bustle. While it was nice to see his son every once in a great while, Jackson was truly intimidated by the sheer level of uncharted terrain to which he had literally walked in. Gibbs Junior told him that he'd be welcome in Autopsy with Ducky, but damned if Jackson could remember how the hell he was supposed to get down there.

The team left him alone, the agents scattering quickly at the bark of his son's voice. Ziva and Tony were out interviewing a witness, McGee was working with Abby on the science stuff, and Jethro was off…irritating someone, most likely. Jackson sat and twiddled his thumbs, playing with a small paperweight on his son's desk. He looked around again, willing the elevator to open so he could get moving. Jackson internalized a scowl when he realized no relief was instantly forthcoming.

Boredom finally got the better of him, and against his judgment, the elder Gibbs stood up and began exploring the area his son and his team called the Bullpen. Jackson wandered over to the desk across and to the left of Jethro's and took a seat, being mindful not the disturb anything. Looking down, Jackson could have sworn that the desk was literally glowing it had so much technology on it. Trying to place the desk's owner, the older man thought about Jethro's team during the time he was able to spend with them and smiled. This desk must belong to Timothy, if his slightly foggy memory served him correctly. Though he found the young man a little socially awkward, Jackson truly enjoyed the company of NCIS' resident geek. He didn't understand a word Tim said about his job, but the kid was good people.

"Damned kids. I don't know how any of them have any kind of people skills these days. All of 'em sit in front of one of these machines all day long and never once do they see a real person! Nobody has any personality any more. None of 'em," Jackson grumbled good-naturedly. Several passing NCIS agents raised their eyebrows but said nothing. The fear of Gibbs retaliation wasn't specifically designated to his team alone, but was spread agency-wide. Jackson shook his head at the plethora of _stuff_ on McGee's desk, a good 90 percent of which he couldn't name or operate if his life depended on it.

Swiveling around in the chair, Gibbs Senior's eyes came to rest on a shelf full of books. Now _those_ were more his thing. Jackson ran his weathered fingers gently over the spines, plucking _Deep Sixed_ from its spot. Leaning back in McGee's chair and propping his feet on the desk, he opened the cover. Jackson hadn't quite made it through the first sentence when one of Tim's computers started beeping loudly, a result of the elder Gibbs' heel resting on the 'enter' key. Jackson shifted faster than a man of his age should be able to in an effort to quiet the piece of technology and gently slid the keyboard back towards to monitor. After being startled from his comfortable position, Gibbs Senior situated himself again and began to read.

Jackson smiled to himself. This book was good, probably one of the best he'd read in quite a while, though the characters did seem vaguely familiar. Regardless of that, a gem like _Deep Sixed_ deserved to be shared, especially since the elder Gibbs considered himself a coinsurer of sorts, when it came to all things good reading. Mysteries were always his favorite, and some of the books he read became the basis for bedtime stories he would tell Jethro when his son was young. Scribbling the author's name down on a piece of scrap paper, Jackson made a mental note to hit the local Barnes and Noble before he left for home to pick up any other works by Thom E. Gemcity.

An hour passed, and Jackson was just finishing up chapter two when a small, homebound book fell into his lap. It must have been stuck somewhere in _Deep Sixed_, perhaps used as a bookmark. Regarding it curiously, Jackson examined his newest find. The hand-sized volume couldn't really even be considered a book; it was more like a pamphlet bound with a couple of staples and a piece of heavy construction paper used to form the front and back covers. On the front was the NCIS logo, and the words, "Probie's Handbook". Curious as to its contents, Jackson surmised it couldn't be terribly important if McGee dared leave it completely unsecured in a copy of a book. The elder Gibbs shrugged and opened the black and gold cover, laughing heartily out loud as he read the introduction.

The elevator dinged, the silver doors sliding open to reveal Tony and Ziva, the two bickering as per usual. The partners had just returned from their interview of one of the chief suspects and made bets on the way back in regard to how much trouble Jackson Gibbs could get himself into during the two hours they were gone. Tony had predicted Jackson's visit would stir up more trouble than Ducky's mother had, and Ziva was hard pressed to bet against it. As they rounded the corner of the bullpen, both agents were disappointed to see Jackson parked at McGee's desk with a book in his hands.

"What is he reading?" Ziva asked, DiNozzo leaning over her shoulder.

"I don't know. It looks like some kind of book or something."

"Very good, DiNozzo," Ziva shot her partner a condescending glare. "I am surprised you even know what a book is, Tony. At least, one that doesn't feature illustrated pictures or photographs of scantily clad women."

Not missing a beat, Tony responded, "Har, har, Ziva. I read plenty of books."

"Whatever, Tony." Narrowing her eyes, Ziva said, "I want to know what it is he's reading. He is completely engrossed."

DiNozzo took in the quiet laughter and smile on Jackson's face. Whatever the thin volume contained, the man was enjoying it. Tony spied the copy of _Deep Sixed_ on McGee's desk and remembered Tim kept something inside that book, something for safekeeping. DiNozzo found it one day while he was rooting through McGee's desk, looking for an extra tie to wear after a suspect threw up on his. It was just slightly irritating to the Senior Field Agent he couldn't remember what was there.

"McGee keeps something in there. I think he uses it as a bookmark," Tony thought aloud.

"A bookmark? Why for?"

"I don't know. It's McGee. Does he need a reason?" Suddenly, a switch flipped in Tony's head. Pointing excitedly, he leaned in and rested his chin on Ziva's shoulder. "Oh, ho, ho! I know what it is!"

"What?" she asked. "And you smell, Tony. Back off."

DiNozzo glared. "Well if you had just let me talk to our witness instead of threatening to shoot him, we probably wouldn't have had to chase him through a garbage dump, now would we?"

Ziva turned and batted her partner's hand back down. "It is not my fault you were too slow to grab him. I think you reminded me in the car that _you_ are the senior field agent more than once, so it is your job to arrest him. I, apparently, am just here to help you." She sighed. "Now, what is it you think Jackson has?"

Tony's eyes lit up. "Remember that little book McProbie wrote a couple of years ago?"

"Little book? I hardly think the two novels McGee has written in that time qualifies as 'little'. Besides, I'd hardly forget _Deep Sixed_. I still make him believe that I have not forgiven him for Agent Tommy and Officer Lisa."

DiNozzo laughed softly. "You too, huh?"

"I have to give McGee a little bit of grief. I can't let you have all the fun. But I still cannot figure out what he's reading."

"Oh, come on Ziva. You should be able to figure this one out," DiNozzo mocked. Taking in Ziva's somewhat puzzled expression, Tony added, "Remember when that crazy stalker of McWriter tried to kill Abby? It was about that time."

Ziva's eyes narrowed in concentration, then widened in realization. "Oh! _That _book? As in _the_ handbook?" Stopping in mid-sentence, Ziva turned and adverted her eyes toward the ground in thought. "And, do you still pretend that you do not know about McGee's Probie Bible?"

"Absolutely! What do you take me for, David?" Tony nodded smugly. "Wait. Don't answer that."

"Hmm. Wise."

Tony could have kicked himself for leaving the door wide open on that one. He settled on clearing his throat and switching the subject. "Do you want to bet on how exactly Gibbs is going to kill McGee when he reads that? You know Gibbs Senior isn't going to be able to keep his mouth shut about it."

"McGee is a dead man."

DiNozzo rubbed his hands together in anticipation. "And we get front row seats!"

"You will bring the popcorn, yes?" Ziva asked.

"I'll meet you in MTAC."

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**Next Up**: Gibbs discovers the results of McGee's freewrite, and Tim sees his life flash before his eyes.


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note**: So, I lied. There's going to be one more chapter after this one, mainly because I felt that a 5,000 word, 10-page final chapter was too much for a fic like this one. (You know, because there's not really any kind of rational plot.) Chapter four is done and is being edited, so it should be out sometime this weekend. But anyway, enjoy!

**Disclaimer**: I own nothing but a mortgage, a Gixxer payment and a really cranky cat. NCIS isn't mine, so please don't sue the desperately poor.

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**Chapter 3**

Gibbs was inwardly pleased the case his team had been assigned was rather open and shut. It meant the team was able to be out of work at a decent time on Saturday, and barring any random acts of violence by Navy or Marine personnel, would be off Sunday as well. And, Gibbs planned fully on using that potential day off to catch up with his father. It was long past time to start mending fences. Both were too old to be carrying grudges over events in the distant past.

The two men ate dinner in companionable silence. Jackson volunteered to cook and even refrained from making what was sure to be a somewhat derogatory remark regarding his son's choice of cutlery and flatware. A plate from the sawdust-infested basement and an auto knife was certainly not civilized in any manor, in the esteemed opinion of the elder Gibbs.

Post dinner, the two men retreated to the basement. Jackson sat on the stool near the workbench and watched his son precision sand some boards, most likely destined to be part of the starboard aft portion of the boat.

"So how was your day at NCIS? Enjoyable, I hope," Gibbs said earnestly, grabbing the sander and working out some rough edges on a rib of the boat.

"It was fine, son. You've got a great workplace, and an even better team."

A pause. "They're unique. Even get it right once in a while."

Jackson shifted and fixed his son with one of his best 'father knows best' glares. "Leroy, you'd better not be taking them for granted. I mean it. That team of yours loves you. They'd do anything for you. That fact was plainly clear in the five minutes I spent with them back at the store at home." The elder Gibbs stopped and pondered. "Have you ever told them how much they mean to you?"

Gibbs never broke stride with his sander. "I don't need to, Dad. They know."

"Maybe not, but maybe so. You ever stop to consider that?" Jackson responded.

"They don't need their hands held, Dad. If they needed that, they should have applied with Fornell and those Bureau Bums over at Hoover," Gibbs answered.

Nonplussed, Jackson pressed on. "And how do you know that, son? Have they told you? Have you given them any clue? Or have you always barked orders, demanded perfection and never given out even the slightest bit of praise?"

The sander stopped moving. _Direct hit_. Jackson was smug when he saw the blank stare momentarily inhabit his son's intelligent eyes. He knew he's stuck a nerve.

Gibbs sighed. "No, I guess I really haven't, Dad. But that's beside the point. They _do_ know how much I care, even if I don't say it. Hell, I'm closer to Abby and Tony than either of them are to their own, real fathers."

"But you don't really know your team, son. Not in the way you should. And more importantly, they don't know you." Similar to the action in the office earlier, Jackson held up a hand, belaying any unnecessary rebuttal. "Now, just hear your old man out for a second. You know how to drive them, how to get the best out of each and every one of your team members. I understand that's your job. You know their birthdays, their likes and dislikes. You even know some, how do you federal guys say it? Some unsavory details about their families?"

"Dad…"

"Oh, don't get your knickers in a knot. No one told me. I figured it out. I might be old, but I'm not blind, you know."

"Never said you were," Gibbs answered.

"Now, where was I? Oh yes. Leroy, would it be so terrible for you to show them the more human side of your personality every once in a while? It's still there, isn't it? I know the Corps strips you of your compassion at boot camp, but you don't need to be such a…" Jackson trailed off, looking for the correct word. "What's the word I'm looking for?"

"Bastard?"

The elder Gibbs scoffed. "Well, I would have chosen something much less dramatic, but I think that'll do."

Command style was one of the many things upon which the two Gibbs men disagreed. Where Gibbs would prefer to keep his people at arm's length, Jackson would welcome them in. "I can't, Dad. I have to lead this team, and I can't do that effectively if they see me as an equal instead of their boss."

Jackson laughed. "Believe me, son, the _last_ thing those young people will ever see you as is their equal. You're a god to them, in case you haven't noticed. Come on. Why don't you give it a try? You might find it's really not that bad."

"Dad, I've told you, it doesn't work that way. Not for me." Gibbs very nearly rolled his eyes, instead settling for picking at a stray splinter in his finger.

"Son, I've always believed that if a boss _doesn't_ know his employees, then he isn't being a very good supervisor. The same can go for you and the military. You should be known to your people as more than the guy who just glares and slaps the back of their heads," Jackson said.

"They do know me, and I know them."

Jackson leaned in on his elbows. "Oh, really. When, exactly, did you tell them about Shannon and Kelly?"

Gibbs swore the temperature of his basement dropped ten degrees. In a low growl, he said, "Dad, don't even start."

Completely without hesitation, Gibbs Senior continued on. "So you just told them, then. Or did they find out some other way? I know how you are, son so don't try and lie to me!"

Gibbs stood up and poured himself a glass of bourbon, swirling the amber liquid around the bottom of the cup. In a nearly inaudible voice, Gibbs answered, "That's different."

"How so, son? How is it so different? I don't quite understand. Is it because you think they might see you as weak?" Jackson sighed and stood. Trust his son to be stubborn and hardheaded still after all these years. Wasn't age supposed to add wisdom and decrease aggression? "Leroy, you're close to them, but you still keep them at arms' length. Now tell me, who exactly are you trying to protect here? Them or you?"

Gibbs' head snapped up at his father's blunt question. For the last five years, Jethro had been asking himself precisely that same thing. And five years later, he still didn't have an answer. Gibbs' team meant the world to him, perhaps even more than he initially realized. He'd make any sacrifice for them, up to an including his own life if it meant his team would stay safe. Abby, McGee, DiNozzo, Ducky, even Palmer - they were the family Gibbs always wished he'd had, but had always been denied the opportunity.

Jackson recognized the signs of the wheels slowly turning in his progeny's head. Giving his son's hand a fatherly pat, he said, "I've even got some reading to help you start off." Pulling a worn, small bound book from the inside breast pocket of his jacket, Jackson laid the small volume on Gibbs' work table. "Come on over and read it. It's thrilling stuff. Bestselling."

Jethro scooped his reader glasses off the workbench in the corner. He ambled over to the table and plopped himself down the stool adjacent to his father. Picking up the slim volume in his weathered hands, Gibbs read aloud, "The Probie's Handbook: A Guide for Gibbs Survival."

At his son's raised eyebrow, Jackson answered, "I found it when I was reading Deep Sixed. That Timothy of yours is quite the talented writer!"

Gibbs cracked the cover and quickly skimmed the introduction, confirming that McGee had actually written the small book. "And he's going to be a dead writer when I'm done with him."

Jackson scolded. "Jethro, the boy is fine. Why don't you just read the thing? You might even like it."

Gibbs threw a scathing glare over the tops of his reader glasses. "You know I'm humoring you, right?"

"Of course I do. Now read the damned book, Leroy."

Gibbs settled himself again and opened the first page. The introduction was, the Gunny hated to admit, spot on. He _was_ hard to read, he _did_ made a lot of demands, and he really did feel those annoying little twats in HR really weren't that necessary in the first place. Gibbs snorted in amusement. It had become nearly a game to irritate the human resources director.

"You know, I read that little guide of Tim's as well. Why don't you tell me about some of the stuff in there. They sound mighty interesting," Jackson said, tapping his fingers on the tabletop.

Gibbs sighed. This weekend was supposed to be about mending fences, and since he'd made that promise to himself, Gibbs was determined to see it through. Jackson was making an effort, something neither of them had done in fifteen years. "What the hell. What can it hurt?" He read quickly Tim's words, finally giving into the chuckle that was threatening below the surface on rule number three. By the time Gibbs was finished, he was openly laughing and equally surprised how perfect McGee's words really were.

When his son set the book down, Jackson didn't waste time, nor did he mince words. "Do you really drink that much coffee?"

"Yep. Helps me think." Gibbs leaned back and tilted his head to left. "Reminds me of this time, about five years ago. Kate, a former agent of mine, was on a sub with me investigating the death of sailor we found in vat of acid. No sailors had been reported missing, so we knew that one sub had an imposter on board. The guy committed suicide when he realized we were on to him, and booby trapped his body."

Jackson raised an eyebrow, incredulous. "He booby trapped himself? How?"

"The guy was going to introduce some kind of gas into the ventilation system, one that would have killed everyone on the sub slowly and painfully. The introduction device was triggered by cold, the air conditioning system we later found. He swallowed it because he knew SOP was to put a deceased member of the crew in the freezer until the sub made port."

"And how was your saboteur going to get off the boat. You said it was sub, right?"

"Yeah, it was sub," Gibbs answered. "And he wasn't going to get off. He was going to die right along with everyone else."

"Another Jihadist? They've infiltrated the Navy?" Jackson asked.

"No, just your garden variety psycho. This one was claiming submarine's sonar was harming the whales."

"So what did this have to do with your coffee?"

"Kate asked me how I could drink coffee when it was 100 degrees in the sub. The air conditioning had to be turned off for safety, and the galley crew brought in some ice cream that had to be moved to make room for the body. I told her coffee helped me think, and right after that, it dawned on me what happened."

Jackson harrumphed. "All in a day's work?"

"All in a day's work," Gibbs echoed.

Jackson stood up to grab the thermos of coffee he'd brought downstairs with him. "When do I get to meet this Kate? What department is she in now?"

Gibbs thought sadly back to Kate while he twirled his mug in his hands. She had really been a good agent. Prudish, but she had a good heart. And smart. Resigned, he said, "You don't, Dad. She died four years ago."

"Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't--"

Gibbs sighed. "It's okay, Dad. You didn't know. I don't expect you to."

"What happened?" Jackson asked.

Gibbs took a breath. "She was shot by a suspected Hamas terrorist during an attempted terroristic attack." He had the foresight to leave out that the terrorist was Ziva's half brother, for he didn't have the energy to answer all the questions his father would inevitably have should that fact be brought to light. "And, quit apologizing, would you? It's a sign of weakness," Gibbs amended.

The elder Gibbs sensed his son's discomfort. Apparently, the death of Kate still weighed on Jethro's conscience whether the younger man would admit it or not. Changing the subject, Jackson said, "I don't understand why you think apologies are a sign of weakness. I think they're a sign of maturity."

Gibbs scoffed. "It's funny. I had a girlfriend that said the same damned thing."

Jackson smiled. "You…had a girlfriend? Well, with the snarky bastard you are now, I'm surprised any woman would come within fifty feet of you and not want to shoot you!"

"She had a gun, Dad. She could have used it if she wanted to."

Jackson snorted. "Hmm. I'm surprised she didn't."

This time, Gibbs rolled his eyes. Picking up both mugs from the work table, he motioned with his head. "Come on. Let's finish this conversation upstairs."

Jackson listened as his son tromped his way up the stairs. Muttering, he said, "About damned time. There's a perfectly good living room upstairs, yet my offspring spends his time under a wooden boat in his basement." As he stood, a loud pop sounded from Gibbs Senior's knees. "I was wondering if I was ever going to regain feeling in my legs." Louder, he shouted after Gibbs, "Now tell me about this girlfriend of yours!"

"She was Army CID, and the stools are not that uncomfortable!" came Gibbs' voice from the kitchen.

Jackson shook his head, grabbing the railing of the staircase. Laughing, he said, "Damned kids."

* * *

**Next Up**: Gibbs confronts McGee about his probie Bible. Duh, duh, DUH!


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Notes**: Thank you to all who have read, favorited and commented. Thank you to those who have taken the time review, especially those who have given a little con-crit. I aim to improve as a writer, and I can't do that unless I know what I'm doing wrong. Here's the final chapter, and I hope you all enjoy reading it as much as I had fun writing it.

**Disclaimer**: I claim no ownership over the brilliance that is NCIS. Don't sue, please.

* * *

**Chapter 4**

Gibbs slid effortlessly in the driver's side of his NCIS-issued Charger. He checked his watch. Twice. Sighing, Gibbs set his palm over the center of the steering wheel and laid on the horn with more frequency than was probably appropriate at 0600 on Sunday morning. Though somewhat inconsiderate to his neighbors, the gesture did succeed in procuring his father's attention.

Jackson ambled out of the house, waving a dismissive hand in son's direction. Climbing into the car, he turned to his son. "Can't you wait one damned minute? A man needs to tie his shoes, and at my age, I'm not bending over without sitting down to do it. You'll be picking me up off the damned floor if I try!"

"Get slip-ons," Gibbs answered succinctly, revving the engine and tearing out of the driveway.

Careening down the street, Jackson fought the urge to sink down in his seat. They weren't even on the freeway yet and already he'd lost count of how many cars Gibbs had cut off, how many horns had been honked, and how many middle fingers waved in their general direction. About 100 feet from the intersection, Gibbs floored it when the light turned yellow. Jackson closed his eyes, readying for the impact when they ran the red light. It caused both drivers in the lanes with the right of way to come to screeching halt, profanities clearly audible from the Corvette driver in the northbound lane.

"Do you have to go this fast, Leroy? I'd like to get to the office in one piece, if it's all the same to you." Jackson's mind flashed back to McGee's Probie Bible and he subconsciously tightened the restraint around his shoulder. _'Always wear your seatbelt…We've asked for racing restraints…' _

Gibbs was unapologetic. "Ride with Ziva, and then come back to me and complain about my driving."

"I find it hard to believe anyone could _possibly_ endanger more lives than you purposefully do on the road." Jackson reflexively grabbed the 'oh shit' bar positioned above the window as Gibbs used the turn lane to pass a slow-moving car. In the process, he played a bit of chicken with a Ford Expedition using the lane for its proper purpose.

As yet another horn sounded as they passed, Jackson yelled, "Now, really Leroy! This is not Daytona, and you are _not_ Dale Earnhardt! Why can't you just slow down?!"

The NCIS special agent pondered his father's question. Why, indeed, did he drive like a blooming maniac? Did he feel the need to test the quality of his issued Charger? Was he perhaps compensating? Was he really in that much a hurry? Was it because he was simply bored? All possible reasons ran through Gibbs's head as he floored the accelerator to sneak into morning freeway traffic, in the ten available feet in front of the bus and behind the semi. As he darted around a soccer mom in a minivan, the Gunny's mind came to rest on one simple answer to his father's query. "Because I can, Dad."

Jackson made a conscious effort to uncurl his fingers from the death grip he had on the seat belt and 'oh shit' bar. "Well, it doesn't mean you damn well _have_ to, Leroy!"

Gibbs smirked. Gunning the engine to redline and riding the rev limiter, the NCIS special agent drifted hard around the next corner he came to.

* * *

McGee stepped off the elevator, tossing his keys up in the air. He had a spring in his step and smile on his face. Even though it was Sunday, Tim never minded coming into the office. Laughing to himself, McGee wondered what random piece of technology Gibbs had broken this time. He often wondered how someone as technologically illiterate as Gibbs managed to function in a cyber-oriented law enforcement society. The man could barely use his cell phone, let alone understand the intricacies of a computer. To Gibbs, 'fixing it' meant bashing whatever object was marginally working repeatedly against the hardest surface available, usually some part of DiNozzo, until it surely did _not_ work.

Tim rounded the corner to see Gibbs sitting at his desk. That in and of itself was not an uncommon sight on Sunday, but the person next to him was. Gibbs' face held its stony, resolute mask of calm, but Jackson was smirking like a Cheshire cat.

"Boss, I got your message. What did you need?" McGee asked as he stopped in front of Gibbs' desk. "Or should I ask, what did you break?"

The former Gunny said nothing, instead inclining his head toward Tim's work area.

"My desk. Yeah. I'll just go…and sit down." McGee walked over to his desk and dumped his track jacket in the corner where he normally stored his backpack. He pulled out his chair to sit down,…

And froze.

There, on top of the keyboard was the little volume of probie rules. McGee gulped. When he bound his freewrite, he never intended for it to see the light of day, at least outside of his apartment. To be perfectly honest, he'd actually the thing was even at work. It had been a complete fluke how it ended up at NCIS in the first place. He had been using it as a bookmark for a case study he'd been reading while at home, and had forgotten to replace it with a real bookmark before he came back to work the next day. Instead of putting his Probie Bible safely in his bag to bring home, he'd instead shoved it into a copy of _Deep Sixed_, satisfied it would never be seen by unsuspecting eyes.

Tim just hadn't counted on Jackson Gibbs reading his book and finding the damned thing.

McGee opened and closed his mouth, doing his very best impression of the unsure agent he was five years previous instead of the skilled investigator he had presently become. He peered the top of the monitor, took a deep breath, and asked the million-dollar question. "Uh, boss? Did--Did you put this here?"

Gibbs didn't answer. He didn't even so much as look up.

"Uh, boss?" McGee asked again. When Gibbs again didn't respond, Tim tried again. "Boss?"

Gibbs' eyes remained fixed on his computer screen. "Yeah, I heard you the first time, McGee. And what do you think?"

Tim's eyes shifted nervously around the room. For once, he was upset the bullpen wasn't bustling with activity. On Sundays, just a skeleton crew worked on the most major cases. Most admin and support staff took the weekends off, and even the janitors were in sparse supply. It was only the MCRT squads who were present, and most wouldn't risk their lives to help save one doomed probie.

"I--You probably did, right?"

Gibbs nodded.

McGee's life flashed before his eyes before he asked his last question. He was sure that Gibbs was going to kill him, slowly and painfully, for writing a guide explicitly detailing what not to do when in the former Gunny's presence.

"Did you read it?"

The NCIS team leader looked down his nose at his probie. Beside him, Jackson was nearly bursting at the seams with quiet guffaws, having little success stifling them. "Of course I did, McGee."

"…And what did you think?" Tim asked, after careful consideration. '_Here it comes…'_

Gibbs stood up and took two long, brisk strides over to Tim's workspace. Laying his hands on McGee's desk and leaning forward over the monitors perched on the surface, Gibbs growled, "I think you need to find yourself a new hobby, McGee!"

McGee closed his eyes and prayed to every deity he could think of that Gibbs would make it quick. "Uh, boss. I'm sorry. I'm sure this little thing came across wrong, and it just started as something to help me get through some minor writer's block with my second book and--"

Gibbs rolled eyes and smacked McGee in the back of the head.

Tim's babble stopped abruptly in mid-sentence. He took a breath. "Thanks, boss."

"Still can't see why you think that's necessary," Jackson grumbled from his chair near Jethro's desk. "You're gonna give the boy a concussion."

"Oh, Mr.--Uh, Jackson, don't worry about it. He does it all the time," McGee tossed out, leaning around Gibbs to make eye contact with Jackson. "Well, mostly to Tony, but I don't think it's done any permanent damage."

"That, young man, is mighty debatable," Jackson countered, waving the eraser end of a pencil he found in Gibbs' pen cup in Tim's direction. McGee reciprocated with a knowing grin.

Gibbs turned back to Tim. "So, McGee. What, now that you know I'm aware of this little book, what are you going to do with it?"

Tim wasted no time with his answer. "I'm-going-to-bring-it-home-and-never-tell-anyone-about-it-again," he spit out in a rush.

"Good choice." Gibbs turned and sat back down at his desk. "Now, would you fix my mouse thing? It won't work right."

McGee breathed a huge sigh of relief. He was still upright and functioning, with all his limbs and mental facilities. "Right, boss." Tim walked over to Gibbs' workstation, checked the battery, checked the back of the computer and plugged in the USB transmitter that had fallen on the floor.

Gibbs' face took on a surprised but satisfied expression. "Hmm. That's all?"

McGee smiled. "That's all. If you don't need me for anything else…"

Gibbs scooted his chair closer to his desk. "Nope. That's all."

McGee nodded and picked up his bag. "Well, Mr., uh, Jackson, it was nice seeing you again. I hope we get to do this soon, especially because I'm not dead."

Jackson stood up to shake Tim's hand, smiling broadly. "Likewise, Tim. And if you feel like you need a test audience for your next book, I know someone who would love to help you out. He'd even do it for free just for the sneak preview!"

McGee laughed heartily. "Well, that's funny because I think my last critic quit on me and he wasn't that good anyway. I was in the market for another one. You up for the job?"

"You bet your ass I am!"

Tim's face took on expression of mock seriousness. "I have to warn you, though. Thom E. Gemcity expects perfection and he won't tolerate a critic who doesn't give his very best effort. He demands honesty, not just ass-kissing."

"Oh, you don't have worry about that with me. I _am_ Leroy's father, remember?" Jackson answered.

McGee smirked. "Jackson Gibbs, you have yourself a deal."

Still seated at his desk, Jethro Gibbs sighed. His father was the only person he knew would be _thrilled_ to be written in as a character in Tim's next book. And at this rate, Gibbs would be damned if he put even a penny against that bet.

* * *

"I vote for the introduction of the four day workweek," DiNozzo groaned from his chair. "I hate Mondays."

"And what purpose would that serve, Tony? Then you would just grow accustomed to hating Tuesdays instead!" Ziva asked from her desk. "And then you'd move on to Wednesdays and Thursdays…"

Tony made a Dr. Evil 'zippit' motion with his hand. "Shut it, David. You're too damned chipper for this early on a Monday morning. How do you do it? I mean, Abby goes through Caff-pow by the gallon, but the worst I ever see you drinking is tea."

Ziva rolled her eyes. "There are a plethora of reasons, Tony, but most are sensible, have nothing to do with your flavor of the week, and would unduly confuse you. It would not be fair."

"That's not hard to do, Ziva. But don't scramble his brains this early in the week. We need all the computing power we can get out him," Gibbs said as he breezed through the bullpen and stopped at the bottom of the stairs. "Morning, DiNozzo."

Tony waved, trying and failing to make himself look more alert. "Morning, Boss!"

Tony and Ziva looked up briefly as the door to MTAC opened and McGee stepped out, a grim look of displeasure clearly visible all over his face. Ziva walked up to stand next to DiNozzo's desk and nudged Tony's leg, the two sharing a conspiratorial smile. One dead probie, coming right up. The Director motioned Gibbs up the stairs and the trio had a quick conversation ending with both Vance and Gibbs congratulating McGee.

Tony's jaw hit the floor. "McDeadman isn't dead? What gives?"

Ziva was even confused. "I do not get it. We know Gibbs' father saw the guide. There is no way Jackson read that and did not tell Gibbs what it was. And knowing him, Jackson likely had Gibbs telling stories about each rule!" Both agents stood for an extra few seconds, mouths agape and brains sputtering.

"I guess I should have taken that bet, then?"

Tony and Ziva whirled around to come face to face with Director Vance.

Tony smiled, shrugging and laughing like a guilty child caught with his hand in the cookie jar. "Director. What bet? There was no bet, and even if there was, and I'm not admitting there was, we wouldn't do that. Right, Ziva?" Tony elbowed his partner and Ziva forced a smile. Tony kept right on babbling. "We wouldn't' do that because you know, that would be wrong. Morally reprehensible, even."

Vance pulled the toothpick out of the corner of his mouth and placed his hands on his hips. "Oh, come off it, DiNozzo. I am ubiquitous around here. I know all, I see all, and I _am_ all. Now, I know you and Ziva had a little side bet going on how badly Gibbs was going to clobber McGee for his little Probie Bible, and yes, before you go any further, Officer David, I know you know."

Ziva and Tony looked down guilty. Each felt properly chastised and quite embarrassed.

"Now, I suggest next time you either keep that little bet to yourselves, or you find a way to be a more covert. For two of the best undercover agents this agency has, you two were horseshit at keeping your mouths closed!"

Ziva was the first to speak. "Director, it will not happen again."

Vance stuck the toothpick back in his mouth. Speaking through his teeth, he said, "See that it doesn't. I've got a meeting with SECNAV in a few minutes to explain away your most recent stunt, so you two would be wise to stay out of my hair for the next couple of hours."

Before his brain could properly activate his "speech filter", the one sentence tumbled from Tony's mouth. "But you really don't have any hair, Director."

"That's exactly my point."

Vance turned and walked back up the stairs to his office. He closed the door and sat down at his desk. At the conference table, a lone figure sat silently, waiting.

"So, how'd they take it?"

Leon looked up to see Gibbs squeezing the stress ball he kept on his desk to relieve the small ulcer brought on by Gibbs and his team. "Like we thought. They both looked like fish out of water."

Gibbs uncrossed his legs and stood. He dropped the stress ball back on Vance's desk and made a move for the door. "See, Leon? Scaring the probies is still fun."

"I hate to admit it, Gibbs, but you're right, even if Tony and Ziva are far from being probies."

Gibbs nodded and walked out the door. Both he and Vance subconsciously patted the breast pockets of their respective coats, just to be sure that their copy of The Probie's Handbook was safely nestled inside. It was indeed, reading for the ages.

**--FIN--**


End file.
